


Should've Thought of That One, Bori

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fellowship of the Ring, Humor, War of the Ring, Writing - Good use of humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2005-08-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3852987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all wish that Boromir had survived Amon Hen, but have we ever considered the implications?  Parody AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not Dead Yet!

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The first of Boromir's senses to return was that of smell.

Not that this was in any way a pleasurable faculty at the moment. The most prominent aromas on the wind at this point in time were blood, sweat, and river scum. Boromir was displeased at this and mentally requested that his nose return to its previous state of dormancy. It didn't. He cursed it inwardly. We wish he wouldn't, since it is a very charming nose indeed. But we digress.

Vision came next. Boromir's eyes were closed, so this didn't make a jot of difference. He considered opening them, but was distracted by the restoration of sense (3), which was that of touch, or feeling.

As his nerve endings ignited back into awareness, it became apparent to Boromir that he was in a great deal of physical Pain. His other two remaining senses excused themselves briefly, and returned when they assumed that he had come to terms with his agony. He hadn't. Three gaping arrow wounds are a rather big thing for a person to come to terms with in a space of thirty seconds. Not that Boromir was privy to the fact that he had three gaping arrow wounds. All he knew was that he was in a great deal of general, excruciating, physical Pain.

He groaned soundlessly. As ragged breath tore through his mouth and dashed screaming down his throat, sense (4) enveloped his tongue in rancid flavor. He could taste blood now, as well as smell it. This was not at all Pleasant.

His sense of feeling was on system overload at the moment, but was gradually sending signals of body movement to Boromir's brain. He became suddenly, horribly aware that he was being violently rattled and jolted, and added Nausea to his current list of discomforts.

His ears left him another few moments to revel in his newfound anguish before his hearing was reinstated.

Suddenly, the air was filled with a terrible roaring noise, churning and screaming and pounding and Boromir could smell river scum and he could feel rushing wind and he was pitching up and down mercilessly and his clothes were wet and his nose was cold and then he finally opened his eyes and no sixth sense was needed to tell him that he was at the point of tipping over the brink of a monstrous waterfall.

\---  
  
Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli watched the funeral boat as it made its solemn, albeit wobbly journey toward the zenith of the Rauros-falls.

Aragorn leaned against his sword and tried very hard to look mournful, even though he had always thought that Boromir was a bastard and was sick of his nagging and was on the whole rather glad that such a nuisance had been got rid of.

Gimli sat on a rock and fiddled with his axe, not bothering to try to look mournful because he had always thought that Boromir was a bastard and was sick of his nagging and was on the whole rather glad that such a nuisance had been got rid of and didn't really care who knew it.

Legolas stood and preened, because that's what Legolas does.

At all events, all three were suddenly distracted by a high-pitched girlish squeal that would have shattered all the glass in the vicinity, had there been any glass in the vicinity (there wasn't), and effectively drowned out the deafening thunder of the waterfall.

“What the…” Aragorn began, before being cut off by the advent of another octave-shattering screech. He was immediately prompted to another series of fragmented declarations as the figure of the man he had assumed was dead sat up somewhat woozily, his outline dark against the flying spray. “I… it… I thought… it was… it can't… but he was… but they were… oh _Valar_ …” A third shriek rent the air.

This was quickly succeeded by exclamations of much less ladylike manner.

A sample is provided. Understand that the circumstances were dire.

“ **(Censored)** EruIlúvatarwhatthe **(censored)** amIdoinginthis **(censored)** boatwhatthe **(censored)** I'mnot **(censored)** deadyou **(censored)** idiots **(censored)** youAragornthisisallyour **(censored)** faultohValaristhata **(censored)** waterfalloh **(censored)** this!”

There was a loud splash as Boromir ejected himself from the doomed vessel and sunk promptly to the bottom of the Anduin.

“He's going to drown,” said Gimli, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Aragorn made a halfhearted stab at decency. “We've got to help him…. somehow… I think…”

The Dwarf snorted. “Well, _I'm_ not going in after him.”

The Dúnadan glanced hopefully at Legolas, who was idly picking his immaculate fingernails. “I don't swim,” he said in reply to the unasked question, tossing his golden hair and cocking his head like the innocent young girl… er, _Elf_ , that he was.

Aragorn stared at the rough-watered Anduin, armed folded tight across his chest uncomfortably. Tentatively he approached the lapping shore and inserted a toe into the water gingerly. “It's cold,” he said lamely, and tried to work out the situation in his head. The last time Merry and Pippin had seen Boromir, he was sorely wounded, so they would assume he was dead… Legolas and Gimli… they could be kept silent with an ample sum… there was no one else to blab, and that water looked awfully nasty…

Didn't Denethor and his other son have prophetic dreams?

“Dammit, he was _supposed_ to have died already,” muttered Aragorn huffily as he surveyed the swirling current and weighed his chances.

\---

Had Boromir been aware of the statistics, he might have known that he was actually a great deal safer at the bottom of the Anduin than in almost any other location in Middle-earth.

Looking over the records of characters who have found themselves at the bottom of the Anduin throughout the course of their lives, one may see that the chances of one's drowning in such a situation are slim to none. Consider the cases of Déagol, Aragorn, Samwise, and the Nazgûl, all of whom survived their sojourn in the River despite overwhelming odds. We may also note Frodo, who failed to drown in the Dead Marshes.

Isildur alone breaks this pattern. Moreover, he and Boromir are alike in many respects, both of them having been tempted by the Ring and both of whom had been recently impaled by a number of arrows. However, Isildur is most closely related to Aragorn, who did not, as previously noted, perish, even though he had also suffered a long fall from a sheer cliff.

All in all, Boromir's chances are very good. We shall wait and see what happens next.

\---

“I don't believe it,” cried Gimli incredulously. “He's _swimming_.”

The Elf and the Dwarf craned their necks, peering at the bobbing figure.

“And against the current!”

“Despite being weighed down with chain mail!”

“Despite being mortally wounded in three places!”

“Curse that Húrin,” grumbled the future King. “He's always stealing my thunder…”

After fifteen laborious minutes during which Aragorn scowled and Gimli yawned and Legolas preened and Boromir swam like hell, the High Warden of the White Tower hauled himself onto the riverbank.

“ _Heal_ me, damn you-aren't you supposed to be the King of Gondor, or something?” he gasped moodily at Aragorn before sinking into the relief of oblivion.


	2. A Crash Course in Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all wish that Boromir had survived Amon Hen, but have we ever considered the implications? Parody AU

_Heal_ him?

Aragorn was mystified.

“What does he expect me to _do_?” the Dúnedain Chieftain cried, gazing dubiously at Boromir's sodden form, which was lying face-down on the gravelly bank, still half-immersed in water. “He took three bloody fatal wounds! I thought we'd settled this fifteen minutes ago!” He prodded the limp body with his boot. It emitted a low groan like the creaking hinges of an elderly door.

“OMG wtf arigorn mabie he wants u 2 use ur sooper-kewl elfan heeling powerz htat u learnd frum elroond,” exclaimed Legolas breathlessly.

There was a long pause. Not a silent one, given the way that two hundred tons of falling water can intrude on the poignancy of a private conversation, but a pause notwithstanding.

“What?” remarked Gimli, presently.

“Er, nothing,” muttered Legolas embarrassedly, his ivory-white skin turning several interesting shades of mortified fuchsia as he worried the loose end of his white-gold braid and minutely examined the toes of his shoes. “Just a little slip-up…”

“Right, then,” said Aragorn, feeling oddly wrongfooted, the way one might feel if one walked in on one's father taking a bath. He covered his confusion by peering down morosely at Boromir and repeating his previous query. “What does he expect me to do? I'm no healer. I'm just a grimy Gondorian ex-Ranger who wears women's jewelry and avoids political duty.”

“We could always leave him here,” suggested Gimli.

Aragorn sighed. “No, we can't.”

“Why _not_?” whined the Dwarf peevishly.

“Because he comes from Húrin house.”

“What's being a Hoora-whatsit got to do with it?” Gimli demanded.

“They have visions-prophetic dreams and the lot.”

“ _So_?”

“His father or brother might have a dream about Boromir.”

“ _So_?”

“They fight find out that we abandoned him.”

“ _So_?”

“I'd prefer not to start out my kingship with getting assassinated.”

“So you get them both on trumped-up treason charges and execute them before they can incriminate you. Simple,” Gimli said flatly.

Before Aragorn had a chance to effectively consider this suggestion, and thus shorten the story by a good ten chapters at least, Legolas, who had used his companions' conversation as time to come to grips with his previous embarrassment, piped up, “Isn't there a phrase about this? A proverb or something?” He paused, wrinkling his delicate nose. “Something about Kings' hands and the like?'”

“'The hands of a King are the hands of a dealer?'” Aragorn put in. “That's what Elladan and Elrohir used to say whenever they wanted to play blackjack…”

There was some rustling from down on the ground as Boromir stirred fitfully. Blearily, he opened one eye. “'The hands of a King are the hands of a _healer_ , you arse!” he groaned before passing out yet again.

This was immediately followed by the second lengthy pause in five minutes.

“So all that time I was dealing cards for _nothing_?!” cried Aragorn indignantly.

\---

When one attempts an Emergency Surgical Procedure, there are a few general rules of which to be mindful. They are listed for your viewing convenience.

1\. You will need athelas. There are a great many reputable healing herbs in existence, but when carrying out an Emergency Surgical Procedure in the middle of a remote wilderness area, athelas is the _only_ botanical that should be utilized. So forget your parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme-athelas, athelas, athelas.  
2\. Measure twice, cut once.  
3\. A Surgical Procedure isn't a Surgical Procedure unless you can slice something open and burn it shut again. Have hot metal nearby, and be prepared to do some cauterizing.  
4\. Don't remove something if you don't know what it is.  
5\. Keep an anesthetic on hand. A heavy blunt object will suffice in the lack of something more sophisticated.  
6\. If your patient doesn't have a religion, encourage him or her to adopt one before you begin the operation. It's better to be safe than sorry.  
7\. Ascertain beforehand whether you are in possession of any sooper-kewl elfan heeling powerz. They probably won't be very helpful, practically, but they may serve as a minor confidence booster for both healer and patient.  
8\. Don't attempt an Emergency Surgical Procedure unless you are acquainted with and fully understand the abovementioned Rules. In fact, it's best if you don't attempt an Emergency Surgical Procedure at all, if there's any other conceivable option, such as euthanasia or voluntary suicide.

\---

It didn't take long for Aragorn to violate Rule #2.

“Is he supposed to be bleeding like that?” asked Gimli tentatively, peering over the shoulder of Aragorn, who was busily bloodying Boromir's cloak and spare tunics in an attempt to staunch the warm liquid flow pouring from his chest.

“Are you questioning my expertise as a healer?” Aragorn snapped irritably.

“Er… no, never,” replied the Dwarf, watching as Aragorn ground a tangled clump of dried athelas in his fist and sprinkled it haphazardly into the wound. “I was just wondering whether that incision was absolutely necessary…”

“Of _course_ it was necessary,” said the would-be King tersely. “Bleeding patients is a well-known medical practice. You have to get all the bad blood out of the system.”

Gimli privately thought that Boromir had lost quite enough blood from his preexisting wounds before Aragorn had sliced him open, but chose to say nothing-partially because Aragorn's temper ought not to be tested at this sort of moment, and also because he didn't want to inadvertently offer any advice that might promote Boromir's survival.

Boromir was, at present, propped against the splayed roots of a large oak, having finally been dragged out of the water so that pneumonia needn't be added to his growing list of medical problems. Aragorn had begun the procedure by stripping Boromir of his mail and tunic.

There had been, at that moment, a sound that resembled that of ten thousand fangirls swooning, but Legolas, who had pranced down the River to preen as far away from the operation as possible, had just rotated his left big toe a thirteenth of an inch counterclockwise, so the cause remained ambiguous.

Aragorn had then announced, dramatically, that he was making the Incision. Gimli had asked, “What Incision?” To which Aragorn had replied, “ _This_ Incision,” and made one. Boromir had then resigned himself to the diverting task of bleeding to death.

The Ranger was now dusting Boromir arbitrarily with crushed athelas leaves and remarking that he might open his own practice once he was settled at Minas Tirith. Gimli made a mental note to invent a list of excuses to present for whenever Aragorn happened to invite him for a visit to Gondor.

Aragorn was searching his fanny pack for more Kingsfoil and Gimli was debating whether he could throw his axe and hit the Elf at this range when Boromir coughed and stirred.

\---

He felt strangely lightheaded. Kaleidoscopic colors flashed across his vision, and the beginnings of a powerful headache beat a steady rhythm within his cranium. He opened his eyes.

Aragorn was squatting in front of him. Blood spattered his arms almost to the elbows.

“You're bleeding. How'd you get injured?” he asked woozily.

Aragorn stared at him with his mouth agape.

Very, very slowly, Boromir inclined his head, and very, very slowly, it registered that there was a pound of mincemeat where his chest was supposed to be.

It then became clear that he was, once again, in a great deal of physical Pain.

“Ouch.”

Boromir of Gondor was out cold for the fourth time that day.

\---

“Is he dead?” inquired Gimli, trying not to sound too optimistic.

“No,” sighed Aragorn. Then, “Let me try something different.”

“Oh, Eru.”

\---

It was strange, this netherworld, a sinuous land of swirling blacks and grays. His breath rose like mist before his eyes, and the swirling current of invisible waters tugged at his boots. A shimmering shadow hung in the distance, behind which the outlines of flitting shapes could just be discerned.

“What a dump,” Aragorn said aloud.

He hoped that whatever lay on the other side of the shadow was more interesting than this, because if this was it-hell, what a waste! To spend one's whole life working like a dog, only to end up here!

He sloshed moodily through the dingy river, calling as he went.

“BoroMIIIR! BoroMIIIIR! BoroMIIIR! BoroMIR, you ass, get over here!”

\---

Boromir could hear someone calling his name.

Peering over the crest of an iron-gray hill, he could just make out the shape of his supposed liege-Lord, wandering morosely down in the valley. Well, let him wander. Boromir was in no hurry to return to reality just yet, where there were Orcs and prissy Elves and ornery Dwarves and grimy Rangers and Pain. And he certainly wasn't about to immediately hearken to the call of a man who had nearly sent him over the brink of a waterfall in an unmanned boat and then proceeded to butcher him in a woeful attempt at surgery. He would respond in his own good time, if he saw fit to respond at all.

“Boromir,” said a second, softer voice, much closer this time. Boromir whirled around and saw…

“Mother!” He rushed forward to embrace her.

“No,” said Finduilas, holding out a hand to halt him. “You must not touch me. It would draw you over to the other side of the vale, to death.”

“But if you're here,” said Boromir slowly, scratching the crown of his head, “aren't I dead? Haven't you come to take me to the afterlife or something?”

“Not yet,” replied the lady of Dol Amroth, smiling. “I am an emissary, sent to guide you back to life. Your time has not yet come, Boro-mir. There is one here who will call you to the Light.”

“I suppose you mean that lout, Aragorn? I'm not going _anywhere_ with him.”

“You'll do as you're told, Boromir of Gondor!” snapped Finduilas in a tone that reminded Boromir, quite forcefully, that she was still his mother, whatever gap of years had closed between them. “You have a great deal left to live for, you ungrateful whelp!”

“So did you,” said Boromir coolly.

“Don't you take that tone with me, young man!”

“You left me and Fari alone because you didn't get enough bloody _beach vacations_!”

“You seem prepared enough to abandon Faramir yourself,” countered Finduilas, expertly skirting around the accusation.

“Faramir's a big boy now; he can take care of himself.”

“Boromir, your father is mad,” observed his mother suddenly.

“Ooh! News flash!”

“And if you fail to come home, O Son of Mine, who do you suppose will bear the brunt of your mad father's rage and grief?”

“I…” Boromir paused, thinking. Then, he said, “We're talking about Faramir again, aren't we?”

Finduilas sighed resignedly and rolled her eyes slightly. “I have such a clever son.”

Before Boromir could reply, Aragorn appeared at the summit of the hill, looking around bemusedly and shouting at the top of his lungs.

“BoroMIIIR! Where the **(censored)** are you?”

Finduilas froze, staring at Aragorn as if unsure if he were real. Then, her face lit up in a spasm of ecstasy. “ _Gil_!” she shrieked shrilly.

He turned and started. “Fin?” he said disbelievingly. “I… weren't you… aren't you…”

“Dead, yes,” she said, beaming at him. “You look _great_.”

“It's the bloodline. We age well,” smirked Aragorn.

Boromir looked back and forth between the pair of them, nonplussed.

“You _know_ each other?”

“Thorongil was in the service of Ecthelion when I first came to live at Minas Tirith,” said Finduilas, twirling a dark strand of hair around her fingers shyly and giggling at him.

“They call me Aragorn now, Fin.”

“Aragorn? I like that. How many names do you have now?”

“More than I can count.”

“Do you remember what I used to call you?”

“You know I do.”

“Can we leave now? Please?” interrupted Boromir queasily.

Finduilas sniffed. “You are right. It is time. Go with Aragorn now, and may your days be long and prosperous.”

“But…”

“Nice to see you again, Gil. Farewell, my son. Don't screw up again.”

“Hurry up,” muttered Aragorn, seizing Boromir's elbow and steering him through the mist. Boromir turned, craning his neck for one last glimpse of his mother. His last sight was one of her blowing kisses-though at whom, he wasn't quite sure.


End file.
